2 Poems – Nicole Connolly

the black swamp pools upas if it were spring—geese break the rocks openwith their staff-like legs

the slippery elmstired of being nakedfog-clothe their bare arms

their geese are not invisiblemerely gray creatures that stand againsta gray world and lose to the world

I could change its colorwith an axe take lumberfor an open stoveif the elms did not creaktheir warning—ready to spear

I cannot consider this small personal pleasure not in this body that kills by existing

all together shepherd spiders sproutfrom one side of the trailand skitter to the other

perhaps they could stitch these two halves wholehoweverthey bring no silk threadsand stand tall on their legsnot to build more quicklybut watch for reasonsto be afraid

I understand thisin the way one sheet shareddoes not collect two bodiesso much as border them against other bodies

motion in desireis often twice-categorizedtaxis—to follow what one needs(I return to the swampthough not belonging)kinesis—to wander because one lacksor something went wrong(I emerge from whichever bedeventually)

all other creatures startleat an unseen sight—whirl around my motionless head(I have spent a life categorizing my desiresand have not desired less)

Picnic at the End of Looking Season

We unshroud our cheese in the car, outlast the freight train that hides its lifespanbehind sound-breaking trees. At the marsh,

watchers pass each other satchels stockedwith silence that makes the blown sheet of birds easier to see. It’s windy enough

for the splaying lake to scratch itselfon the sand, say ahh. We say, last one, then cut another slice, another. You halve

a strawberry with your teeth, guide the fleshyou’ve opened against my tongue. After we’ve learned to look, a crow’s cocked wing

can fold the whole field, is a sacred crease, though in a few days, this reverence fades away, and the cheese rots from

so much sun, refrigeration can’t save itlater: when we’ll drink to talk about me leaving, not talk about it, continue

to drink. Here, at night without you, I make noises that lie about what I am to ward off mountain lions, dogs, lovers. I go

to the ocean at night, too, say not right now, maybe not ever, while the tide beats its fists, offers that old, tired offer

to knead me into the grave. I remember mymood lifts sometimes, as if the sun’s chariot harness also pulls me by the neck—though it has

to keep falling, falling, to rise, rise. It takestoo long to believe those bright, orbitinghorses will return unless I drain my whole

body of blood to offer them salt, something to drink;the other half of my useless, ouroboros joy: to give, to wait,

to give—until it becomes a form of taking.

Author Bio: Nicole Connolly lives and works in Orange County, CA, which she promises is mostly unlike what you see on TV. She received her MFA from Bowling Green State University, and her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such journals as Pretty Owl Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Big Lucks, and Pithead Chapel. She currently serves as Managing Editor for the poetry-centric Black Napkin Press.